


Cursed prompts

by Killian44peeta



Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Puns, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Innuendo, M/M, Mega Prompts Challenge, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fic, Self-Harm, Stupidity, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27329206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killian44peeta/pseuds/Killian44peeta
Summary: Cursed Prompts. Yeah, exactly what it seems1. Innocence2. Bandages3. Desire4. Trust5. Belly6. Greetings7. Tower8. Villain9.
Relationships: Arthur & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Arthur/Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight & Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight & Squirrel | Percival (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Nimue/Pym (Cursed), Pym & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 63
Collections: Netflix's Cursed - Monthly prompts picked by a cursed bot!





	1. Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Green Rating ahead.

Beta: @KaitEmi1

Words count: 605

If Gawain had had to use a term to describe Lancelot, "innocent" would certainly have _not_ been one of the first that would normally have jumped into his head.

It probably would not have appeared _at_ _all_ , to be honest, also because the other man appeared very little candid and pure by looking at him at a first glance -and even at a second one, and at a third glance too-, he seemed more like an omen of death. An omen... Well, a far too pretty one, but still.

Yet _innocence_ was practically one of the few and only adjectives that came out of his mind in that moment -perhaps out of shock, because he definitely was not expecting this, not even in the slightest-, witnessing the beautiful scenario that appeared before his eyes as a some kind of mirage, and he could not remove it from the center of his thoughts even if wanting it.

Lancelot was in his tent -which was quite normal, since they had to share it for the common safety and, above all, for that of the former monk-, wrapped up in blankets to the shoulders, his face totally devoided from the usual frown and absorbed expression, so that he seemed to have suddenly gotten really, really young.

With that calm face, that total immersion into his own peaceful sleep, he totally lost the aura of mystery and darkness that he seemed to wear constantly, passing from one extreme to another in the blink of an eye. All of that because of how fragile and defenseless he appeared.

He looked so... Angelic... And adorable. And, yeah, _innocent_. Almost childish, even. As if he _wasn't_ a real war machine that was capable of exterminating an entire army, man after man in succession, without getting a single, tiny scratch. Like, at all. And as if, at the same time, he had never been taken away from his own family and _forced to become_ that machine.

It was an almost hypnotic view to him, in such a way that Gawain could have kept staring at him for hours and hours and wouldn't have felt annoyed or bored by doing so.

As if to confirm it, there was the fact that, well, it took him a long time to see the rest of the scene in front of him in a clear way.

Lancelot's hands, long and thin, poked out of the white sheet, only to lean with an absolutely delicate manner -and very protectively- around Squirrel's back, who was snuggling against the man's chest like a tiny kitten, almost searching the former monk's body heat -and he had found it by how he slept soundly in his arms, without any problem or fear in the world. There was no doubt of it.

The child's head was mostly resting in the crook of the man's neck, showing an equally blissful and peaceful expression on his face.

Him too, to be seen like that, well, it was hard to connect the fact that he was the same boy that literally shouted, in the _same_ day, so many swear words that Gawain lost count -and the patience for hearing them all- and proudly insulted an old Tusk because he was glaring and going to spit at Lancelot's face.

Gawain, after a few seconds of contemplating the thought and the scene, almost paralyzed on the spot for how much he had been motionless, found himself involuntarily smiling and shaking his head, sighing softly. All of this before taking off his armor, leaving it not too far away from the bed and hiding himself too under the covers.


	2. Bandages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh... Orange rating, I would say? Subtitled child abuse. And, uh... Scars.
> 
> I suck at summaries xD

Beta: @KaitEmi1

Words count: 750

Lancelot had never really had a Healer who wanted to help him heal war wounds when he had been with the Red Paladins. Yes, there were healers between them, but none of the "servants of God" - except Father Carden - whether of that role or not, had ever tried to get close to him except to hurt him - with so many different ways - or to wait for orders on the battlefield.

It was he himself, generally, who tried to block the flow of blood that slipped out of the repeated scratches, cuts and grooves that ran through his entire body, appearing as flashes of bright, shiny red on his pale skin, easily distinguishing themselves from the old, heavy greenish and purplish spots that already decorated it, almost as if they were a light pastel on a paper which already was soaked by watercolors.

Normally, he did not take too much care of them. It was enough that the bandages that he wrapped around them were firm and that they were blocking his blood inside his body for the time he needed for healing, because, otherwise, he would risk bleeding out while he was throwing himself into a new fight.

It therefore seemed quite bizarre and unnatural to him to sit in the infirmary with Pym, who was wandering from one side of the room to the other to grab the main ingredients of the ointment which she would have used on the long cut that was on his arm: An unpleasant gift received that same day by bounty hunters, as the Pope had put one on his head, which was... well, Lancelot was more than sure that with all that money they could feed an entire city. In any case, however, those hunters were no longer in a position to give unwanted gifts to anyone.

If it had been for him, he would have kept the wound to himself, he would not have told anyone about it, pretending nothing happened - Because for him, after all, it was just a small scratch compared to the lashes that already traced his back . Those wounds, he hadn't mentioned them to a living soul so far, and he still had no intention of doing so- but Gawain had noticed the cut as they rode back to camp.

The Green Knight had seen the blood, the slashed sleeve and essentially had started giving him the third grade, forcing him to get help from the redhead, to the point that he literally escorted him into the tent and left him there, without possibility of escape and no chances to protest about it.

So, this was how he ended up in that situation, following with his eyes the irregular, really fast walking of the young Healer, who from time to time murmured incomprehensible broken words from her pink lips, leaving him with many question on the tip of his tongue, but finding himself erasing them all, the nervousness of waiting that devoured his bowels while he just kept being silent.

When Pym stopped her trotting from the left to the right, Lancelot found himself involuntarily clenching his mouth and gritting his teeth, feeling the girl's gaze bore on him for several moments before - with uncertain steps - she officially approached him.

The former monk saw a slight tension in Pym's features, he could even smell it in her scent - how could she not be tense? After all, it had only been two months since he had stopped killing the Fey kind, _his own kind,_ under the ecclesiastical ideals he had been taught about- but he felt it fade as she took courage and confidence, grabbing his arm and almost making him stop his breathing.

She started to smear the substance on the cut with only two fingers, appling it with a rotating movement, giving him _all the attention and care_ that she could give, until she seemed to be satisfied with her work.

The young woman, after that, took the white bandages and began to turn them around from his wrist to the elbow, not hurrying herself, not squeezing and not pulling them too much, even trying, at the end of it, to give him a half smile -a little drawn, maybe, but still- which left him baffled and perplexed for more than a moment, before finding himself thanking her in a whisper and almost bolting out of the tent.

If he had just thanked her for the bandage and the ointment itself, or for the mere fact of being _this gentle and attentive with him_ , Lancelot wasn't sure.


	3. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still Green Rating! Yeah, nothing smut, just a tricky title xD

Beta: @KaitEmi1

Words count: 670

There was something strange with him. Something strange that he had, actually, taken a while to translate _to_ _understand_ _what exactly it was_.

He knew it now. He felt it with every single fiber of his body.

It was a sensation of full, intoxicating and enveloping warmth that insistently flickered in the pit of his stomach, and then suddenly expanded and traveled to his chest, where his heart seemed to have gone mad or something since how crazy his beats were, accelerating during the most inopportune moments and making all the blood rise to his face.

_Desire_.

Desire flooded him every day, every hour, _every damn minute_ , never enough, never really ending.

Desire made him tremble, lost in thought, wandering like a moth surrounded by darkness, looking for the light of the lamp, not paying attention _at all_ to the possibility of being burned.

Desire made him burn. Oh, yeah, it definitely made him burn, but without ever being totally consumed by the flame. He burnt to the point that he could have screamed with all the breath he contained inside his body, spitting out the storm that was overturning him from within.

It was as if there was a fuel inside him ready to ignite at the slightest rub. The one who was rubbing it, in this case, for Arthur, was no longer Nimue, as the girl had been previously.

No. With her, the spark had sadly calmed down, turning into a feeling of respect, brotherhood, submission - she was a Queen, after all - and friendship.

Their love had become completely platonic, carnality had swarmed, like the flame of a candle that had no more oxygen, both from his side and from that of Nimue herself. And they had said it to each other in private, with all the calm and peacefulness in the world, finding themselves smiling with slight embarrassment at the memory of their - one and only - night together, when they had thought it might be the last. In reality it was only the first. For both of them.

Well, the feeling of butterflies, of the heartbeat that suddenly stopped and then threw itself into a desperate race without borders, of nervousness and swallowings that followed one another while his eyes almost went to caress the profile of the center of his attentions, daring for a contact, a meeting of glances ... All this was born for one of the Vikings. And not just a _anyone_ of them.

To be accurate, the new source of his interest, the new adrenaline rush - that shook him on the spot until his legs were going to let him fall and that left his heart pounding so strongly that it even seemed to produce an echo inside his temples - was the fierce, gorgeous, strong daughter of Cumber, the Ice King, called by everyone as _The Red Spear._ But that he knew with another name.

_Guinevere_.

Yes, _Guinevere_ was her real name. And that name sounded like a melody to his ears. Nine letters that were enough to bring him to attention, nine letters to which he would have dedicated verse after verse, song after song, until he lost every single residue of his voice, thus remaining silent, but without remorse, just as he would have dedicated to those beautiful dark and shining gems that she had as eyes, full of character and firmness, to the point that under them he felt almost stripped. Stripped by clothes, by any armor, hit in full by that thin blade that was her gaze, which infiltrated into his flesh to stay.

And Arthur accepted her, craved her, pined for her attentions, demanded that that weapon would stuck all the way into his chest, so that the sensation would remain as much as possible, so that _she_ would remain as much as possible.

_So that she_ would make him vibrate with all the excitement that ran down his spine - in a series of shivers that resembled invisible slender fingers - and took his breath away, already dead between his parted lips.


	4. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Green rating. Maybe a little bit more yellow than green, but just a little bit.

Beta: @KaitEmi1 

Words count : 875

There was no trust, not even a little bit of it, inside the looks of those around him.

Most of the Fey still looked at him with overwhelming annoyance, their eyes full of suspicion, hatred and the kind of disgust that didn't need words to express himself, announcing - through those eyes and the grimace, _not even tried to be hidden or disguised_ , that traced their features - how much they would have liked him to disappear once and for all, replacing one of the many people, _one of the many victims slaughtered like animals for their nature or attached to a cross and set on fire_ , who were no longer there _because of him._

Lancelot knew they were right to look at him this way, he knew he deserved to be looked at this way, but it didn't change the feeling of not being able to breathe by an inch, as if there was a lump inside his throat that was twisting there to suffocate him, to destroy him from within, and of not being able to return those looks that were thrown at him, still trying, but always ending up watching nervously elsewhere, biting inside of his own cheek.

That "somewhere else" didn't matter most of the time; whether it was the foliage of the trees, emerald green, wet with the morning dew, which seemed to try, from leaf to leaf, to touch the celestial and immense sky above them, illuminated by a pale and warm, shining sun that had barely peeped out from the clouds, or whether it was the small, innumerable branches that snapped loudly and with extreme ease beneath his black boots, well, it didn't change that much, except that at times seeing the forest seemed to give him back the oxygen that he needed, while looking at the ground ensured stability into his legs.

That morning, his gaze was neither immersed in the leaves nor thrown on the ground.

It was impossible to look at anything other than the people who surrounded him like vultures with the carcass of an animal and who looked at him obliquely, as if they were thinking about how easy would be to kill him, exactly here and now: if he had tried to look down, he would have ended, little but sure, by hearing them snicker at him, whispering something to each others or mocking him loudly... while trying to look up was useless, since the view of the trees was obscured by the crowd.

As if that were not enough, the smell of Fey of all kinds was so strong that, if already he could not breathe for the negative emotions that were sent to him, at moments he felt dizzy from the addition of that load of sweats of various skins, of - more or less equal - scents of plants and aromas of food that some of them must have just consumed for a quick breakfast.

The air was stale, suffocating, even revolting to his nose and the former monk hoped for nothing else but to escape it, he could not help but wish to reach the Queen's tent as soon as possible to talk about the situation of the bounty hunters, even though he knew he had to wait anyway, as Gawain had not yet gotten out of his own, on the contrary him - which he began to regret having done, to be honest - and was neither safe nor authorized to really walk away without having either the Green Knight or Kaze to keep an eye on him.

One part of his brain was suggesting the possibility of fainting, something that had happened to him only twice due to odor factors, both as a child ... The other part was already whispering to him about the presence of the start of nausea, precisely at the bottom of his throat, while his head already throbbed repeatedly.

His heartbeat, for the most part, was accelerating, all while Lancelot's blue gaze darted from one Fey to another, then to another and another again, unable to really stop moving after reaching one of them, forcing himself to maintain a calm expression to not show his more than vague panic.

He was therefore very, very relieved by the arrival of Gawain, a factor that served to thin out the crowd, restarting their morning works, as if nothing had happened, as if they hadn't all stuck there before, one after the other, all accusing him with their venomous gaze, over the silence - some of them partially ready to throw a stone at him, perhaps, in case he decided to hint at a movement, a thing that he noticed when they all started leaving.

<< Is everything alright?>> the Green Knight asked him after a few seconds, probably because of the fact that, well, it was Gawain. And Gawain was really, really too much good at reading him, sometimes.

<<Yeah>> Lancelot said with an husky tone, _lying_ and licking his lips just a little, feeling the shame rolling inside his chest, but ignoring it <<We... We should go now>>

<<Right.>> Gawain responded, a smile forming on his face while looking at him with a softness that the former monk could not describe at all, feeling his face heat up instantly << Come on>>


	5. Belly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Green rating, YEY. Before or later, I'm gonna write something that it's not green rating xD  
> *I love writing fluff, I'm sorry but I'm not sorry *

Beta: @KaitEmi1

Words count : 1385

<< So ... Is there something wrong? >> Pym found herself asking, coughing a little before uttering the question and wiping her dirty hands - dirty from the medicine she had spread on the swelled left leg of her previous patient- on her own long skirt, almost casually, only to realize it after doing it and having a really, really disgusted expression on her face << Ugh. _Seriously_ >>

Lancelot remained silent, just like he had been for the last fifteen minutes, his face showing no understandable emotions, a fact that was beginning to give anxiety to the young woman, even if she tried to stop making it too obvious.

When the former monk had entered the Healers' tent, again, accompanied by Kaze, not even four days after the cut she had treated him for, the girl could not help but feel surprised - so much that she almost dropped a pottery in which there had been the remnants of the medicine she used, the same one that now dwelt on the fabric of her skirt and that she would have liked to remove with all her heart- tense and perplexed as never before.

And if she had already been stiffer like a tree branch when he appeared, then... Well, at that moment, she was even worse for the nervousness of having the Ash Fey there, totally alone, not to say a word, with Kaze who had not given explanations at all - unlike Gawain four days before - and who had limited herself to get out of the tent, glancing at her and making a single nod, as if to say 'if he tries to do something, just shout' .

<< Did you hurt yourself, again? >> she tried asking hopefully, begging the Hiddens to, at least, be able to snatch a nod and a silent indication of the point where the new cut was dwelling, but getting in response the former monk to raise his head and to wide his eyes so suddenly that it made her jump and hold her breath, with the sky blue glistening in sight with something unreadable written inside them.

<< Did you fall or... ? >>

Something that, however, disappeared just as it had come, being sucked inside in a hurry, leaving the man to shake his head a little.

<< No >> he said, his voice low and hoarse, as if this had come from the depths of a cave, so much so that to spit out that word it seemed as if he had struggled, meeting her gaze again with apathetic and empty expression.

Pym frowned, opening her mouth to try to say something, but not in time, because the other quickly cut her off.

<< No, I didn't. _Forgive me_ , maybe I shouldn't have... It was a waste of time. >> he said the last part in a quick mutter, with a partially irritated tone - but with who, exactly, it was not clear.

The blonde started to turn to leave, as if he was burned while talking to her, making a slight grimace that the girl would not have noticed if she had not been staring at him with the utmost perplexity during his speech.

Perhaps out of instinct, out of confusion or perhaps out of the looming curiosity that had now ignited inside her, Pym quickly grabbed his wrist, blocking him from his escape without thinking twice about it.

She couldn't help but notice how Lancelot drastically paralyzed on the spot at the contact and - emptying her mind - decided to ignore this detail, tugging him to urge him to follow her, which he did without saying a word.

<< Sit down >> she ordered with a firm tone - or at least, she hoped that it would be firm, but she highly doubted it, gently tapping the cot with her hand, seeing him mechanically obey at her gesture, the pupils of his eyes that seemed to be dilated, pointed at nothing at all.

<< Now explain it to me >> the redhead added after a few seconds, always squeezing his wrist to prevent him from run away << After you explain it to me, you can leave, not before you do>>

To be honest, Pym felt that ... Well, that if it had been months ago, such a phrase would never, ever come out of her mouth, indeed.

By the time the Weeping Monk arrived at the camp, she had been _terrified_. She had imagined for several days in a row that everything would end for her, that the Red Paladins would come out of nowhere and kill them all or that he himself, overnight, without being noticed, would eliminate them from first to last.

So, yes, if it had been months ago, she would have let him escape, would have let him leave, and she would have been glad too, blessing that he had left her alone.

She was still terrified now, yes, but not that much. Almost not anymore, if she was being honest. More than anything else, anxiety rose inside her in his presence, perhaps out of habit, perhaps for the simple fact that he always looked impossible to understand to her. Either way, she wasn't that scared of him anymore, probably because she noticed his attitude when he was in Squirrel or Gawain's company. Or maybe because, as apathetic as he seemed, there were moments when his gaze seemed to be almost _screaming_.

Screaming so many emotions that Pym didn't know how to respond to them.

And so, she could not but wait for Lancelot to speak, responding to her 'order', seeing his mouth open slightly, as he almost tried to weigh the words that should have come out, swallowing a little.

<< I think... >> he began cautiously, always staring into space << I think... I have some weird disease? ... And some insects inside my belly >>

<< W- wait ... What? >> she looked at him with her mouth wide open and her eyes almost out of their sockets, while her brain was trying desperately to connect << Insects inside your belly? Like worms or parasites? >>

<< ... Butterflies, I think >>

_Butterflies_.

Butterflies inside his belly.

For a moment she wondered if he was joking, but the former monk was deadly serious and visibly tense.

_He didn't know what it meant_ , she thought. _It had probably never happened to him before and certainly the Red Paladins didn't seem like the kind of people who would talk about romantic poetry or anything like that._

Pym remained motionless, confused on the spot for several seconds, trying not to read that sentence in the only way she could think of and she almost let out a choked laugh from her mouth, and just choked on it before it could surface from her lips, even managing to let the saliva go sideways, launching several coughs in which the blond man's eyes rested on her, appearing quite worried.

<< The other symptoms? >> she ventured, trying to understand - and to be partially professional, even if to be honest she was a very bad Healer - if what Lancelot saw as a disease, well, it actually was, but in a more than harmless way << Strong heats? Crazy heartbeat, just like the one when you've been running for hours and hours or something? And does it always happen when you have a specific person around? >>

Lancelot opened his mouth, then snapped it shut and just nodded slowly, pursing his lips. From the wrist she still held, she could feel his body immersed in anxiety and even the rushed rhythm of his heart.

<< Ah, it's alright >> she patted her free hand on his shoulder gently, smiling openly and without being able to control herself << Nothing to worry about, you will not die. You have a disease that practically everyone has sooner or later... and that you can have several times in your life>>

A clear question seemed to be written on the blond's face at such phrases, underlined by his slightly tilting his head and frowning eyebrows.

<< You are suffering from love sickness >> she said, giggling slightly, letting go of his arm and giving him a wink.

She probably knew who was the one that he was crushing on. It was an idea and she definitely wasn't sure, but... _Oh well_.

She couldn't stop another giggle, seeing the former Weeping Monk blush of a light red on all his face.

<< Am I?>>

Pym just nodded with a little chuckle and a knowing smile.


	6. Greetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orange Rating for self harm thoughts and internalized homophobia

Beta: @KaitEmi1

Words count : 1160

The former monk was not yet used to being called by name.

The nickname given to him by the Paladins, although he was no longer that person in concept, was more and more common and normal to be found on someone's mouth, while hearing those eight letters aloud from someone else, especially if it was from a new person, well, it shocked him enough.

Most of the time, in fact, he ended up with his eyes widening or his body stiffening drastically, his hands not knowing whether to stand behind in a soldier's position or in front of him to defend him from whatever was going to happen, while whispers that more than vaguely recalled Father's voice danced inside his mind, hovering in it like ghosts and scratching at his thoughts, this before he hurried them away from it, just to focus on what he would be told.

Percival's case was a separate thing; being called by the boy was different, more natural. Perhaps, in part, this was due to the fact that little Fey was rarely silent and the amount of things he fired during ten seconds was more than impossible to count. He greeted him so many times, even more times than he believed was humanly possible, to get his attention or just to ask him if he was listening to what he was saying - _When they had both fled from the Red Paladin's camp, Percival had called him by name even more often, especially to make sure he wasn't going to lose consciousness, to fall from the horse or to bleed to death at any moment._

Another person - if not the only one except Squirrel - with whom he had begun to get used to being greeted was Gawain, of course, as he too often asked him questions, if only to find out if everything was okay or to hand him small demands about specific subjects that the former monk would hardly have thought of if it weren't for the man himself.

Yes, definitely. Even with Gawain he had begun to get used to the situation of being named so easily. The only difference between Squirrel's action and the Green Knight's was that the former monk's reactions to the latter were... Quite bizarre.

So bizarre that he thought there was something wrong with him, so much so that he couldn't stop himself from going to the infirmary to talk to Pym about it and that, according to the girl, it meant that he was in love.

It was a fact that bringed discomfort to him. And not just a little - Only thinking about it, evaluating the feeling almost casually, letting himself taste his own emotions, brought a voice inside his head, _always the same voice_ , which performed in an unlimited series of insults that at times were shouted at him, while in others they were merely whispered, muttering a some kind of litany, as poisonous as it was in constant and that seemed to be hijacking his mind. And in both those cases, his main desire - that was dragged inside his veins instead of blood, flooding into his arms which twitched a little, even if they were stretched rigidly along his sides and especially inside his slightly trembling fingers - was to grab a weapon, whatever it was; from one of the small sharp knives he was used to hide into his boots, to Goliath's thin reins, and so, after taking them, to hurt himself with it repeatedly, increasing the violence of the blows every single time to get deeper, so as to break drastically his own flesh, piece by piece, to free himself from his sins and let them come out of his demon born body through the blood, until his head became lighter.

 _Until he felt cleaner, less sinful, less near to the evil_ \- and this didn't happen often, most of the times the sticky feeling of his dried blood and the shakiness of his chest was all he could feel.

He felt he had to punish himself for simply being attracted to another man, since _love sickness_ had hit him in full despite being taught by Father Carden about how impure and _wrong_ this was, about how much the love for another men was a ruin for the soul, yet another step towards the devil who, like a snake, continued to revolve around him to trap him, until he no longer would be able to free himself from it.

This thought alone was enough to make his guts tighten and took his breath away, leaving him to choke - _He had even been taught more and not exactly by Carden_ , one specific other thing that tasted bitter on the tip of his tongue, but Lancelot didn't want to send his mind into those specifics spirals. He preferred to make them sink into the vast tide of thoughts that moored to it like boats in the bay, to still hide those shipwrecked skeletons who were instead trying to return to the surface, because he was not ready to break the wall with which he had surrounded them to isolate them and make them as less visible as possible.

He knew he had to punish himself, but he didn't, he couldn't do it... And the reasons were mainly Kaze, Pym, and Percival.

The first because she had to guard him when Gawain was not there and she would have immediately noticed if there was something wrong with him, she had noticed his hid agitation when he thought he was ill, certainly she would have seen it as suspicious if he was walking oddly or assuming pain-relieving poses afterward - and she certainly would have stopped him if he tried to scourge himself .

The other girl because she would later have to help him and his practice would end up becoming a fact of common knowledge.

For Percival, however, it was for all the possible and imaginable reasons, starting from the fact that he wanted to protect him - and if hurt, he doubted he could do it in the best way - continuing with some of the expansive attitudes he had and ending up with the fact that if he tried to hurt himself in the shared tent, the boy could show up at any moment and... Yes, _disasters were going to come from there_. So, really, he couldn't do anything.

He was going to keep his sins to himself until he had a way to let them out, an occasion, and the only way to avoid adding more to them was simply staying away from Gawain, avoid looking at him, thinking about him... _everything_. But how could he do that if the man was one of his guards? If he slept in his own tent and sometimes, even when Kaze was already present, would search for him by himself?

 _It seemed like an impossible task_.


	7. Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Green rating ahead! :)  
> Hope you all enjoy

Beta:@KaitEmi1 

Words count : 714

Nimue, from time to time, found out that she was missing the Gremaire's castle .

It wasn't for the feeling of being a Queen with her own throne, it wasn't for the feeling of being protected that the walls brought her, it wasn't even for the comfortable beds - although these were certainly appreciated a lot - and the rooms always so open and full of decoration.

No, those were small details, not really that important for her.

Nimue missed that castle for another reason.

When she needed to get some air, to shake off the tensions, the bad thoughts that moved inside her mind and even the influence of the Devil's Tooth, the girl had found herself climbing up, up again and again, the higher she could get, searching for the end of the long marble stairs, being at the highest point of the entire castle: a small tower.

" _Small_ " because compared to the other spaces, it barely allowed the entry of four people in a decent way, five would have already had to squeeze in it until they were almost stuck, six instead would have caused the death of someone, since that person would have fallen from one of the Guelph Battlements or, again, they would have been thrown into the lookout post.

Nimue really missed that tower: it had allowed her access to all the surrounding landscape and also to the one beyond, as if she could see until the end of the world... And very often this gorgeous paradise was engaged in a wonderful play of light, between the sky that went from the lightest blue, the red mixed with a vibrant orange or to the most total and starless black she had ever seen - All those three occasions had taken her to an immense wonder, the sublime that sank into every inch of her body, nullifying the nervousness and anger she had previously felt and replacing it with the desire to stay there and watch, to taste the sounds that seemed to try to chat with her and the cool breeze that went, like a spiteful little girl, to absently shaking her hair, so much so that a few strands always seemed capable of ending up on her mouth and thus snatching an amused puff from her, and the ground that split between the green - a green that looked always different to her eyes - and the dark brown of the forests and the plains, the yellowish of the fields and the silver stains of the cities in the distance.

But even more, she missed being on that tower with Pym, just the two of them, very close, talking about everything and nothing at the same time, without being able to stop smiling and giggling sometimes and always finding themselves holding hands, fingers well intertwined.

She missed being alone with her best friend, she missed feeling like a mere seventeen year old - sixteen and eight months, so soon she would be a seventeen - and being free.

Those events fully reminded her how lucky and grateful she was that the redhead was still alive, it reminded her of how she felt broken and empty after her village was destroyed, unable to accept that she had lost her home, her mother and the other girl practically at the same time.  
Just the thought of not being able to see Pym and hug her anymore had crushed her heart and brought her to tears several times, especially on some nights, cold to her soul and cruel to her mind.

The tower, in the company of the other girl, had allowed her to re-perceive the feeling of normality, of youth, of full joy, and for this reason she really wanted to return there, especially at that precise moment, when she was intent on studying the maps as carefully as possible and on listening to the elder Fey discussing among themselves rather animatedly - _at moments, some of them seemed about to jump at each other's throat_ \- so much so that the young woman could not refrain from asking for silence, managing to shut up the whole group after a few seconds.

She sighed lightly and pinched her nose, grateful for it, returning to the maps, even though her mind still showed her the warmth of Pym's fingers.


	8. Villain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhh- Orange rating? I have no idea xD  
> There are... Death themes? A little bit of Angst? But not too much  
> There is FLUFF ahead, you're warned  
> I won't take responsibility for diabetes, huh  
> Just like I won't take responsibility for headaches caused by Squirrel. I just won't.

Beta : @kayabiter

Words count: 2006

<< Okay, that's enough >>

Percival let himself slide to the ground, exhausted. His heart, pounding fast in his chest, seemed to eat away at his flesh, as he took one inhale after another through his nose and blew them out just as quickly through his mouth, trying to regulate his rhythm.

The boy wanted to protest and to tell Lancelot it wasn't enough, but his throat was so dry he couldn't get a word in edgewise, struggling even to swallow.

<< Just... a short pause >> he said after a while, acutely aware of how he was scrutinized closely by the thoughtful eyes of the adult who stood before him, looking as rested and fresh as a daisy. His left hand rested on his hip and his right clutched the branch he had faced him with - and which Percival had been against. When they had begun, he wanted to use the sword, but had surrendered, because otherwise the man wouldn't have trained him at all. 

And damn it, Gawain had made him a knight! He had to train, he had to know how to fight as well as he could, he needed to know how to defend himself... So, yes. He had agreed to work with sticks. That, however, didn't change the fact that he was going to ask him next week to at least switch to a slightly more appropriate weapon, possibly a blade and not one made of wood. And if he denied him again, he would continue from week to week, tormenting him every day as only he knew how.

<< No, we're really stopping for today. It's better not to overdo it >> was the impassive answer of the former Monk. His gaze had moved to the shrubs that surrounded them and his nose was scrunched, sniffing the air in a way that left many people stunned, but not Squirrel. He'd gotten used to it by now -- partly because it was something he did at least two, three times per day; though sometimes he acted like this involuntarily.

Percival would have liked to complain again, to deny that sudden stop, to insist that he could proceed without problems. But the fact was that, after a short pause from the end of the sentence and the sniffing of the air, Lancelot had turned back to look at him. Again.

And this time he did it with an expression that said 'no discussion' and that made Percival snort loudly, putting on an offended expression with which he was trying to make the other man realize that he would be mad at him all day long - or, at least, that he would pretend to be mad at him all day long.

He forced himself to get back on his feet, patting the fabric of his pants to brush off the traces of dirt that had soiled them.

<< I could have continued, >> he tried to insist after another pause, already letting his own branch fall to the half yellowish leaves that hinted at the soon arrival of autumn. Putting himself beside the man, he started to walk back to the camp, moving forward with a quick step, sometimes even zigzagging from one side to the other.

<< I wouldn't have been overdoing it. I would have just practiced a little more. >> He raised his hands and waved them left and right, before turning around and walking backwards. Lancelot arched his left eyebrow in response to this. << Sennar said he got stronger and stockier just by sheer will power, working day and night, never really sleeping, taking breaks only on festive days. You could really see the difference, you know? He can even lift a cow now. And not a small cow! A huge one, even taller and wider than that ugly snout that Goliath is! And she's definitely prettier too, if I have to say. She's all white, just a single brown spot over her left eye.... Anyway, what I was saying was that he, by working so hard, made great strides and it only took him a month and a half! You shouldn't coddle me like this, it will take me years, otherwise.>>

The boy said it all in one breath, nearly tripping over a root in his ardour. Then he turned around as if nothing had happened. He did not notice the slightly worried expression of the man, who just sighed -- perhaps for the relief of being sure that he would not be hurt; perhaps for the exasperation of his insistence and the insults to his horse.

<< So, yes, I think you should train me even more! I would finally be able to actually fight and that would be bloody great, wouldn't it? I could take on rows and rows of enemies without batting an eyelash and those Red Paladin scum wouldn't stand a chance. Not that they have a chance now, of course. They're all brawn and no brain! All they need to do is hear a little noise, even just the rustle of a bush, to make them shake like geese, but they wouldn't have even a small chance to win and it would be really... >>

<< Percival, >> Lancelot interrupted him, making him shut up instantly and look at the man with a perplexed expression, especially noticing the one that the adult wore on his face.

The man was in fact staring at him again with the same attitude he had before, as if he was studying him, a bit like he did when he found himself in front of a new thing he didn't know how to approach. It was reflected in even more rigid posture -- he looked almost like a sculpture.

<< What? >> asked Squirrel then, giving a little kick to a stone that happened to be the closest to his foot, making it bounce among the twists and turns of the path. In a blink, it disappeared who knows where -- probably among the fallen leaves or behind that sturdy tree. << Spit it out. >>

<< Are you alright? >> The former Monk inclined his head just a little as he asked the question, the question that took the child by surprise, an emotion that was almost immediately replaced by fake disappointment.

<< Of course I am. Are you blind? Why wouldn't I be? >>

Lancelot shrugged slightly. << We've been training for a fortnight, but it is only today you're relentlessly insisting on going on, even though it's more than obvious that you're exhausted... >>

<< I'm not exhausted, not at all! >>

<< ... And that you definitely need a bath. >> Squirrel pulled a face at this. << And rest, especially with how you didn't sleep very well last night. >>

At once, Percival stiffened, even holding his breath - like a fawn that had just sensed the hunters approaching by the snap of a twig under their boots - then tightened his lips and furrowed his brow.

Yeah, Lancelot wasn't wrong: he hadn't slept very well the night before. He almost hadn't at all for a while, except after he'd tried to distract himself by tracing the coverlet. It had not worked -- he had cried a little, barely sobbing, trying not to make a sound lest he woke up the man sleeping next to him. However, he failed, and then Lancelot’s arms had wrapped around him in an embrace. With one hand, the man had started to caress his hair, a circular movement that was so damn soothing. It had put him to sleep in no time.

Last night, Gawain hadn't been in the tent, having gone to a meeting with Nimue and the Fey elders. It must have ended rather late; the witness to it were the heavy circles Squirrel found himself seeing under the Green Knight's eyes when he woke up - they were so bad that it was a surprise that he was awake.

In the morning, however, it seemed that both Percival and Lancelot would not utter a word about the night before at all, as if nothing had ever happened... Perhaps Lancelot hadn't had any idea how to ask about it before, even if he had wanted to. And so he had merely cast glances at him, frowning a lot and coaching him, like he always did.

But in the end, it had seemed as if he had really dropped the topic, acting somewhere between casual and cautious. Apparently, that wasn't the case. 

<< It was nothing, >> Percival's lie was blatant, but Lancelot gave no sign of being bothered by it. He merely made a barely audible, hoarse sound, accompanying it with a slight nod, as if accepting that he was keeping his secrets, even as his gaze continued to show concern towards him.

<< Just a bad dream, >> the boy found himself admitting then, blushing slightly, but just a little, barely a few small patches of red on his cheeks.

"A truly horrible nightmare" he added to himself, the memories flooding back against his will. 

During his dream, all the people he knew and cared about, from the first to the last, had been laying dead on the ground.

There was so much blood that it looked as if there was a huge red lake, not even a small bit of emerald green left. The crimson seemed to be trying to swallow the corpses like quicksand.

And the villain of the dream was there as well, towering over the dead. He approached with slow steps, wearing the cloak Percival had seen on Lancelot during the time he had been the Weeping Monk... But Lancelot was the person who wore it in the dream. 

Instead, Lancelot was one of the bodies, one that Squirrel was desperately trying to shake awake, even though it was more than obvious that it was in vain.

Lancelot was dead, in his dream, and just the idea hurt him more than he ever imagined it would, before, when the man saved him from that awful blind monk.

No, Lancelot was definitely not the enemy that haunted Percival’s dreams.

The villain had been someone else. He was unrecognizable at first as the boy could only see his back, before he turned around and revealed the face of Percival himself.

For a short while, he remained silent, before uttering a simple 'It's your fault'. It echoed in his mind, getting louder and louder, until he woke up with a start.

Just thinking about it again brought tears to his eyes, but he fought them back, and then Lancelot's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

<< I seem to remember that my mother, when I was about your age, told me that bad dreams are just dust brought by the wings of mischievous night butterflies. They pour it on your forehead or, if there is little of it left, just make you sneeze. >>

<< Night butterflies? >> Percival's expression turned perplexed and curious at the same time. << Why would butterflies give you nightmares? >>

<< To have fun, I guess. And to see how long the powder will cloud your judgment... The longer you’ll keep in mind what they've shown you, the more they'll laugh at you. >>

<< That sounds stupid to me, >> mumbled the child, still unable to hold back the vague irritation at imagining some nasty butterflies laughing at him.

<< Maybe, yeah. But the point is... Whatever bad dream you've had, you shouldn't pay too much attention to it. Much less overdo the training as if you expect there to be a change overnight. You have to give yourself time. >>

<< But Sennar said... >>

<< Sennar has a different build. >> an 'Or he lied to you' was implied. << And you shouldn't take him as an example, what he did is not exactly healthy. It won't take a month or two, no, it will be longer, but in the end you'll be stronger than him. >>

Percival pouted for a moment, but still found himself nodding, feeling strangely more reassured.

<< And yes, you do need a bath. >>

<< Wha- That's not true! You smell worse than me, I swear! >>

<< Then we both need it. >>

<< I'll only do it if you let me use the sword tomorrow! >>

<< Stop haggling, Percival. >>

<< Ugh. I hate you. >>

  
  
  



End file.
